


Maybe She Can Be Free (Working Title)

by ZhenXueQing



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, POV Molly Hooper, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:08:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25057474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZhenXueQing/pseuds/ZhenXueQing
Summary: It's been three months since the incident. Since that time, Eurus Holmes has been an elective mute. She spends her days staring quietly at the prison wall and, periodically, lies in bed staring quietly at the prison ceiling. She only moves to eat and to relieve herself, occasionally bathing. She never gave any indication that she's interested in anything save for playing the violin with her brother, who visits on a weekly basis, like clockwork, until…Until on one mild afternoon, Eurus Holmes lowers her violin and stares at her brother...and gives him a name: “Molly Hooper”.And Molly Hooper answers.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 20
Kudos: 125





	Maybe She Can Be Free (Working Title)

She takes the seat farthest from him, or rather, as far as she could manage within the small confines of the helicopter. John Watson, for once observing correctly, claims the middle seat, wordlessly agreeing to act as the human wall between the two. (He knows that that’s his purpose here.)

She faces the window as he climbs in after John, fixing her eyes on the horizon of choppy ocean waters and a greying sky. It’s going to storm. (She knows she’s being dramatic, but she for once she let’s herself have this.) They don’t speak as they don the headsets, and she allows herself a moment of respite as the world muffles around her, sinking into white noise.

Three months… _and she still hurts_.

Her hands clench — knuckle white — as they lift into the air. She feels his gaze: brief, careful glances of concern and gentle enquiry. She obstinately ignores him and tries not to think about how precarious they are in the air, moving toward the eye. She doesn’t want to be, but she’s anxious and worried.

When they first approached her with this proposal, her initial reaction was to stare at Mycroft Holmes. He held her gaze for as long as he could — five, quick heartbeats — before he broke away and looked to his shoes, brows furrowed. She felt powerful then, fleetingly, before Mrs. Holmes took her hand between hers and squeezed, the woman’s aged face writ with desperate hope. She knew, then, that the brothers had also been placed in this impossible vice: a mother’s unconditional love.

She, like them, couldn’t bring herself to refuse the woman.

Which is how she finds herself here, miles above the water, flying toward the unknown. Straight into chaos, headfirst.

It isn’t the first time.

_“What do you need?”_

_“You.”_

She plays with the ends of her scarf, thick and frayed, and wishes she can disappear inside her coat, dated and worn, and never come out, but denies him the opportunity to see just how uncomfortable — _broken_ — she is. He may observe, but he will not see.

She stays silent throughout their trip (no one interrupts), sitting up only when she first spots the island. Perhaps, on a different day, a day of sunshine and blue skies, the island would not look so bleak and forebode. As it is, however, with thick, dark clouds hovering above and harsh, hard waves crashing against the craggily cliffside below, it is the epitome of romance and tragedy.

From afar, she can make out the battlements of the Napoleonic fortress, beautiful old stone blending perfectly into the rocks of the island: Sherrinford, a secret maximum-security prison that housed the worst of humanity…and today, she is the honoured guest of one of the inmates.

Their sister requested her.

Mycroft is waiting for them in the courtyard, umbrella clutched tightly in one hand while the other presses firmly on his hat. The storm is rolling in fast, the wind pulling fiercely at his coat as their helicopter teeters carefully to a landing. The guards move to flank their guests; the security on the battlements and keep are particularly alert at their arrival.

The men descend from the helicopter first, stumbling at the force of the wind. Mycroft hooks his umbrella around an arm and extends her a hand, just as the younger Holmes does. John’s eyes grow wide, darting between the brothers. She chooses Mycroft’s before the he could retract his offer and pretends not to see the hurt on the other’s face.

John’s face pinches, but he understands.

She also pretends not to see.

“Let’s talk inside,” Mycroft says, his voice raised over the coming storm. The thunderous clouds are now rolling over them; the rain will start soon.

They follow the guards into the fortress, fighting against nature with each step. It goes unsaid, but It’s rather fortunate that their helicopter made it. Somehow, they get to the door just as the first of the rain falls, fat unforgiving drops that soak the earth. It’s pelting and harsh, like infantry fire. They shake off the few drops that landed on their coats, and she and John shivers.

Mycroft’s assistant Anthea greets them at the entrance. She gives them a clinical smile before returning to her smartphone, texting rapidly. Flanked on either side of the brunette are orderlies with trays of steaming tea. Mycroft picks one up and offers it to their guest.

“Doctor Hooper,” Mycroft addresses her softly, cautious and tentative, “thank you for coming.”

She feels his trepidation and knows that he’s been taking care for a while now, sidestepping, skirting, gentle. (And not just with her, she can tell.)

For as long as she’s known him, she’s pictured their relationship as a tipping scale, constantly teetering back and forth with each encounter: his first interrogation of her (a mild and unimpressed poking), the woman with no face (his mocking pity), the fall (his begrudging gratitude), every possible overdose (his honest gratitude), the island (his respect and shame). He’s been off-kilter for months now and she admits with some shame that she did it purposefully. She has let this gone on for far too long.

She makes the conscious decision, right then, to relieve him.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” Molly takes the tea, recognizing it for the white flag it is. “I-I am…” She takes a bracing breath and gives him a reassuring smile. “I am glad to help.”

Mycroft is released. She can see it in his face, how much of a burden he was holding onto, made obvious when his shoulders visibly ease. She quickly averts her eyes to her tea, giving him some semblance of (ill-disguised) privacy, as he masks his relief by removing his hat and fixing the lapels on his coat. From the corner of her eye, Molly sees John with his mouth agape.

“What just—” John fumbles, but then stops short and shakes his head with a sigh. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”

The younger Holmes watches this with analytical eyes. He sees…but does not observe.

Anthea chooses then to speak. “Mr. and Mrs. Holmes are waiting at the designated cell. Sir?”

Mycroft nods and then leads the group forward, security quickly falling into step. Molly manages a sip of her tea before being swept up, abandoning the mug on one of the waiting trays. She nearly stumbles, feeling anxious again. Everything is going so fast!

“Please be rest assured, Dr. Hooper,” Mycroft says as they traverse the hallways, “that you will be safe. Our sister is secure behind Elephant glass, the strongest transparent material made by man, and her wrists will be bound by manacles fastened to the floor.”

Molly blinks rapidly at this. She doesn’t know whether to be frightened or to take pity on the youngest Holmes.

“You won’t be alone,” Mycroft continues as they file into the elevators. “We will be with you in the room. There will be security just outside the doors — a mere precaution, of course, and the vicinity is under strict surveillance at all angles; if there is need for alarm, those observing will send further assistance.”

The elevator opens to a lower floor that is in stark contrast to the upper levels. The old ancient stones of the fortress have all but given way to that of the white sterile walls found in modern facilities. Additional security stands along the walls, interspersed by surveillance cameras, and at the end of the hall are a few orderlies.

Yes, Molly thinks, this is more of a prison for the macabre.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes are waiting by a set of metal doors with their own personal security. Mrs. Holmes looks almost beside herself with worry, wringing her hands and _tutting_. Mr. Holmes is rubbing gentle hands along her arms, trying and failing to soothe his wife. Both are noticeably reassured to see their arrival.

“Thank you!” Mrs. Holmes bursts, eyes glassy as she rushes up to Molly. “Thank you,” she says softer, “for coming.”

“Yes,” Mr. Holmes agrees, much calmer than his wife. “Eurus has never…asked for anything before.”

John exchange stilted smiles with Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. He doesn’t want to be back in Sherrinford, but he’s doing this for his friend — _friends_. (This is dangerous and Molly is exposed; he must soldier on.)

Molly gives an awkward smile, processing Mr. Holmes’s words.

From what she’s gathered, pieced together from conversations with John and with, periodically, the younger Holmes brother, Eurus Holmes has been an elective mute since the incident three months ago. She spent her days staring quietly at the prison wall and, periodically, lying in bed staring quietly at the prison ceiling. She only moved to eat and to relieve herself, occasionally bathing. She never gave any indication that she was interested in anything save for playing the violin with her brother, who visited on a weekly basis, like clockwork, until…

Until on one mild afternoon, Eurus Holmes lowered her violin and stared at her brother — dead-on — and gave him a name: “Molly Hooper”.

Once.

The Holmes brothers did not speak of it, thinking — fearing — that it must be another game. They were unnerved that she may be relapsing.

Mycroft later confided to Molly, soon after she had been accosted by their mother, that their sister had spoken her name at every visitation since. As soon as the violins ceased, Eurus would speak. The brothers continued to feint deafness up to the point of their parents being involved. With Mr. and Mrs. Holmes present, before they could even draw the first note, Eurus spoke Molly’s name again, beginning and ending the visit almost immediately, as she then turned and stared blankly at the wall, violin untouched.

It was then that the Holmes brothers understood: their sister wasn’t playing a game, otherwise she would’ve drawn it much longer for their parents’ benefit. Their sister was asking for Molly’s presence. One could only imagine Mrs. Holmes immediately championing her daughter’s “request” with the fervour of a wounded animal. The Holmes brothers couldn’t _not_ speak of it then.

Mycroft emphasized to Molly, in that moment of privacy, that Eurus Holmes was the most intelligent, dangerous, and formidable adversary he had ever had the misfortune of facing. He did not mince his words or gentle his tone; he made it quite obvious that she must think seriously of what the Holmes family was asking of her. Molly recognized then, the stiffness in Mycroft’s shoulder and the hard conflict in his eyes, that this was him offering an olive branch of sorts. That he wanted her to know everything so that she could make an informed decision.

He did not want her to risk her life…but he also did not _not_ want to be absolved of his sins.

And they both knew she could give it, or enough of it so that he could _breathe_ again.

So she agreed. She wanted to try for them.

Even if she’s _afraid for her life_.

Knowing that she is to meet Eurus Holmes soon, Molly’s hands tremble and she shoves them into her coat; she doesn’t want to cause Mr. and Mrs. Holmes any distress. With their prickly sons and a shadow of a daughter, Molly doesn’t want them to worry any more than they have to.

Regardless, she knows her hesitancy and self-doubt are not missed. That she’s frowning at the floor, warring with herself, isn’t missed. That her fear isn’t missed.

_That’s when he breaks._

Open.

_Finally._

“Molly,” he snaps, abrupt, intense — _a crack of a whip_. He turns to her, brisk and destructive, his Belstaff cutting the air like a knife. There’s a severity in his gaze, stern and strained. “You don’t have to do this. We can leave this instance.” He vehemently ignores the alarm blaring from his parents. “John and I” — Bless John for stepping forward with a determined nod — “I know you—”

“Sherlock,” Molly interrupts, shaking — firm, hard, unyielding, “ _stop_.”

Her words are like a bullet. Sherlock flinches. John flinches. _Mycroft flinches_. Even Anthea looks up from her phone, fingers halting in mid-text.

Molly forcefully gathers herself and then bravely meets Sherlock in the eye, steadfast, uncompromising, watching the kaleidoscope of emotions flickering in his irises. A deep and beautiful blue, waxing and waning with shock, worry, anger, fear, desperation, self-righteousness… _shades of love_. She travels with him, her heart falling and rising and flipping and flopping and — just — _so beaten_.

She was _so good_ at ignoring him up until now.

John tells her that Sherlock is getting better. Sherlock is learning. Sherlock is always learning. After each of their encounters, after each time Molly is stung, Sherlock sees and observes and… _feels_ …and metamorphosizes.

_“You do count.”_

Greg Lestrade once told her that Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and that he might even be a good one in time. Interestingly — almost laughably — shortly after the incident, Greg told her just that, that Sherlock Holmes was now a good man. He looked pointedly at her, but she only pursed her lips and returned a look of her own so thorough that the detective inspector was forced to retreat from her morgue — _carefully_.

_“You’ve always counted...”_

Even _Mycroft_ asked for her patience, but—

_“…and I’ve always trusted you.”_

Molly is _so tired_. She’s _so tired_ of hearing what they are saying. These _men_.

_Molly Hooper doesn’t exist for Sherlock Holmes’s character development._

She can forgive him, but cannot forget _._

Sherlock swallows thickly under her watch, his throat tight and painful. He sees. He observes. He _feels_.

_Why does she have to hurt for him to grow?_

He isn’t the only one who can observe.

_She’s tired of forgiving._

With a bolstering breath, Molly turns from him. Sherlock shuts his eyes, hard — _a door slammed in his face_.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes watches this exchange closely; Mrs. Holmes noting her youngest son with transformative eyes.

Molly diverts the room with: “I’m ready. Please.” Her voice is small. She nearly stumbles, but does not retreat.

Mycroft recovers as John places a steadying hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Yes, of course, Dr. Hooper,” Mycroft says hastily. Anthea moves to unlock the door. “We will enter first and take our seats along the wall. You…” He searches with caution, “…may enter at your leisure.” He removes his coat and they follow suit. Sherlock doesn’t move and they don’t acknowledge him; he needs time. “Given the peculiar circumstances, would you like a panic button?”

Molly swallows, contemplating. After a few beats, she decides, “No, it’s fine. As you said, I won’t be alone. Thank you for the offer, Mr. Holmes.”

She graces Mycroft a shaky, polite smile and Sherlock grinds his teeth.

If they weren’t under “peculiar circumstances”, as Mycroft puts it, Molly’s sure John would have taken Sherlock aside and shook him — comfort him — _something_. Instead, John pulls Sherlock into Eurus’s cell, the man rigid and uncooperative at every step. Sherlock has never been so lacking of grace.

Molly watches them go, adrenaline pumping headily in her veins. She didn’t want to make a scene, but she — just — _can’t_ —

“May I take your coat, Dr. Hooper?” Anthea startles her.

Anthea is holding out a hand for her coat, phone nowhere to be seen, probably pocketed. They were alone now, the others having already made their way inside. Almost awkwardly, Molly registers Anthea’s presence and recognizes... _respect?_ _Something_ in the woman’s body language. Anthea actually maintains eye contact as Molly, for the very first time, registers the colour of Anthea’s _brown_ eyes. Molly understands the importance of Anthea, recognizes it and respects it.

“Um…yes, thank you,” Molly says meekly, slipping her coat to Anthea. “S-Sorry about earlier.”

Anthea tilts her head, amused. “Why?”

Molly doesn’t know, but Anthea is merciful. The executive gestures to the cell.

“Dr. Hooper,” Anthea says by way of adieu.

Molly looks to the door and blinks. She wonders, not for the first time, what she’s doing here. She doesn’t even know if she’s helping, honestly. She suspects that Eurus Holmes is even more observant and hurtful than her brothers, and in a strange roundabout way, she’s the one who broke Molly’s heart.

She’s pretty sure that Eurus Holmes can destroy her.

She shouldn’t be here.

But then she remembers the aftermath. She remembers the way John held onto Rosie so desperately, muttering apologies and trembling; for weeks, when he thought no one was looking, she caught him burying his face into his daughter’s hair, tears at the edges of his eyes. She remembers how skittish Mycroft was when he arrived at her flat that evening, agents flooding her rooms to dismantle the cameras and, possibly, the explosives; he took her aside, quietly, privately, even respectfully, to explain what had happened. She remembers Sherlock apologizing, always apologizing, and _saying nothing more_.

She saw and observed in his eyes, face, body…the agitation and worry and _fluttering_. He could not process it. He always _felt_ too much, and he couldn’t process any further. He expected — _hoped_ — it would all go back to how it was, back to his understanding of “normal” — just so that he _didn’t_ _have to_ _process_.

And she tried. She really tried.

She smiled when he wanted, laughed when he wanted, and made terrible, terrible puny jokes when he wanted…

At times, she was able to fool him. At times, she was even able to fool herself. (It says something that even John’s notices a discrepancy, now that he knows.)

And Molly was angry. She was angry for a long time.

Angry for John. Angry for (of course) Sherlock. Angry for (even) Mycroft.

Angry for Rosie, who didn’t even know that she could’ve lost another parent — _her last remaining_.

Angry for Greg and Mrs. Hudson, just imagining them grieving over another grave bearing his name — _and_ _John’s_.

 _Angry for herself_.

And in time, anger faded. In time, Molly even forgot. (She’s actually really good at pretending, honestly. Always pretending…) She genuinely thought she could live like this for the rest of her life, like a pane of broken glass glued back together, fitting and not fitting at the same time.

Besides, what could she do?

But then Eurus spoke Molly Hooper’s name…

And Molly Hooper answered.

The hurt and anger should be driving her away, like the weakling she is, but she takes them and uses them instead to bolster herself, to feed her rare bravery. She wants to meet this Eurus Holmes. To see the woman who broke her heart.

Wants to confront her. For John. For Mycroft. For Sherlock. For Mr. and Mrs. Holmes.

For Rosie, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson.

_For herself._

Just so Molly knows. Just so she knows that _nothing is normal anymore_. Just so she can show him that _nothing is normal anymore_.

Just so that he can _get his shit together_.

…Just so that she can walk through the fire and be reborn.

_She’s so tired of pretending._

She squares her shoulders and takes a step forward, her heart beating loud in her ears. Her nails dig into the cuffs of her jumper and she bites her lips. She’s scared and anxious and panicked, and she doesn’t care to hide it. As she’s crossing the threshold, she’s convinced herself that whatever may happen, she will just have to take it as it is and live with it.

She’s not scared to.

(Maybe after this, Molly can be free.)

Molly squints at the bright LED bulbs shining overhead, illuminating the woman in the glass box. From Molly’s peripheral, she sees the others in their seats, watching with various levels of concern and vigilance. Sherlock remains standing, John ever present at his side. They both look so grim.

Eurus Holmes faces away from the door, her back to Molly. She is a tall, slender figure dressed in a white shirt and pants, wrists bound by manacles fastened into the floor. She has long wavy hair not unlike the shade of Sherlock’s brown, falling down her back. She looks lonely in her box, harmless and piteous, and Molly quickly reins in her sympathy.

Eurus Holmes is not a good person.

The door closes and the lock is turned.

The silence that follows is deafening and Molly doesn’t dare to look at the others. She wonders if she should speak first. After a beat, she wonders why she hesitates. Wonders why she always hesitates.

“You…” Molly breaks off and chews her lips nervously. Then, clearing her throat, she tries again. “You wanted to see me?”

Eurus Holmes doesn’t react, perhaps having not heard her.

Molly thinks to try again, but opts to wait. She always waits.

Mrs. Holmes is nearly vibrating in her seat as John clenches and unclenches his fists. She knows that Sherlock wants to pace, but controls himself.

When Eurus finally elects to move, the room goes still.

Molly continues to wait, patient and brave, and clasps her hands in front of her, standing taller, straighter (as if that would help, as if she were donning amour).

Eurus takes her time, turning slowly, with measured steps. The chain links scratch softly as they graze the floor, but otherwise there is quiet. It seems as though all the Holmeses prefer a dramatic entrance: a memorable first impression.

But theatrics weren’t needed when Eurus finally faces Molly, her gaze open and piercing.

Molly’s eyes grow wide, heart in her throat.

_She knows her._

“Hello, Molly,” Eurus says, quiet and proper.

Molly stumbles back, a gasp fights its way out of her.

_“I hope you’ll be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it.”_

“ _M-Meena_?” she whispers, feeble, stunned.

_“I love you.”_

She crumples to the ground, shaking, taking short shallow breaths.

_“I love you.”_

(Maybe after this, Molly can be free.)

The Final Problem.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea since I've watched The Final Problem back in 2017. I'm not sure if there's another story with this twist; if there is, I haven't found it (but someone please share!).
> 
> After six years of not writing, I've decided to take a chance (with an AO3 account; I've abandoned FF.net). I'm not sure if there's going to be another chapter, and I'm actually hoping someone else will take a crack at this.
> 
> The end is rather abrupt and I'm disappointed — it's probably because I wrote it first (I couldn't help myself).
> 
> I also apologize for the tenses. It started with present tense and I couldn't revert to past. I appreciate any criticism and will fix immediately.
> 
> Regardless, I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you for reading. :)
> 
> P.S., AO3's tagging system is crazy sophisticated! Should I be tagging this with "BAMF Molly Hooper"? ;P


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